I read about the crash in the press in the week I attend my first cycling protest, a Reclaim the Streets organised by the anonymous Siggy the Cyclist. I was toying with the idea of joining the next one, a Critical Mass, something I was aware of from living in London in the 90s, but had never been on. Reading about the crash--one of (at least) four that happened in the country that week--made up my mind. Whether you’re a pro-cyclist in your 20s or a vaguely arthritic middle-aged woman, surely the streets should be safe for cyclists?
So that’s how I found myself cycling to my local train station, trailed by a tractor, during the Friday night rush hour--direction Luxembourg City and the Gëlle Fra. There I met up with around 40 other cyclists including a cycling-activist friend of mine. I wasn’t expecting the range of people. Dads with young kids, a couple of after-workers with high heels and nipped-in waists, young men sporting one rolled-up trouser leg (‘courier-chic’ my friend tells me), the politically motivated, and then those who wanted to ride around the city to discover new routes but didn’t want to do it on their own. Chinese, Colombian, French, Dutch, Luxembourgers--the usual colliding of cultures trying to avoid colliding with each other as we pushed off.
We swung behind the Cathedral into a curfewed Friday night in the City, the barman at Bazaar folding umbrellas as we stretched our legs. Up past the Place du Theatre with its gaggle of non-theatre goers, across Rue des Bains, and along the side of the retirement home on a new-to-me decked path which leads onto the red bridge. Were we going to take the cycle lane with its unsuspecting incline along the boulevard Kennedy? No. We turned right, into the Philharmonie tunnel, and out again to take the more scenic parallel route through Neudorf-Weimershof. In all the years I have lived in Luxembourg I have rarely ventured off the main Kirchberg artery. So it was interesting to discover life in these veins. People hanging from windows. Cows in a field. And at the end, the building that used to house St. George’s School tucked away in a playground, a lone kid kicking a football against the wall.
Did we disrupt the traffic? No. There wasn’t much here. But now it was time to cross back over boulevard Kennedy under the watchful eye of the tall banker. Surely it could kick off here? The revving of the car engines at the lights as we waited patiently in fractured groups sounded threatening. But then revving always does.
Once Kennedy negotiated and back in our huddle, we turned in front of the new library, past the group of Teen Lords of the Roundabout in the hanging beer-garden of rue Alfred Borschette, up past the European School and the ghosts of my children shrugging goodbye as they dragged themselves out of the car (oh dear) in years gone by. Then along boulevard Konrad Adenauer until we reach the controversial Pont Joseph Bech.
By now I was pretty cold, but the exhilarating downhill with donkeys of the aptly named Val de Bons-Malades told me it was time to head for home. People had peeled off at various points of the loop. And now it was my turn. Up the lift to the Pfaffenthal funicular and then on to the waiting train that was on the platform to take us round to the Gare centrale.
I was home in time for a Friday-night Chinese with a friend who, as I’m tucking into my noodles, tells me about her encounter with an aggressive car driver on that very morning’s cyclo-commute. Confrontations are a worryingly frequent occurrence, but this particular one where my friend was deliberately and constantly pushed onto the pavement or forced to brake by the car driver over a 200m stretch, incensed me. Bring on the next action. This is critical.